


Shelter

by softestpunk



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Haytham has a lot of feelings, Huddling For Warmth, M/M, Shay also has a lot of feelings but a great deal more emotional intelligence, but it got weird and emotional, honestly this was just supposed to be that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-30
Updated: 2019-11-30
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:21:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21618280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softestpunk/pseuds/softestpunk
Summary: After the second Precursor site falls, Shay feels the need to be alone--where "alone" means "with Haytham Kenway"They have a lot to talk about.
Relationships: Shay Cormac/Haytham Kenway
Comments: 13
Kudos: 103





	Shelter

**Author's Note:**

> IDK guys, I'm sick and miserable and I needed a cuddle so Shay's getting one in my stead.

Perhaps half an hour into trekking through the snow after Shay, I begin to realise that the invitation to come along may have been made out of politeness rather than sincerity and wonder if Shay does, in fact, have a destination in mind, or whether he had merely intended to carve out a few hours of time alone for himself.

The thought makes me hesitate, pausing to examine the imposing walls of ice surrounding us, marvelling at the grandeur of it all.

Things have moved so quickly during my time in these frozen reaches that I have barely taken a moment to _notice_ them, much less appreciate the stark, wild beauty of a place like this.

“Sir?” Shay’s voice brings my attention back to him in an instant.

He is calm, when I look at him, serene in this incredible place, and I’m now certain I’m trespassing on his peace, but it’s too late to turn back—I know my limits, and I know that alone, I might wander these identical caverns forever.

Shay has a knack for navigation that James Cook would sell his grandmother to have a fraction of.

“Forgive me,” I say, and while I mean to refer to stopping abruptly, the words suddenly seem a great deal more load-bearing than I intended.

The last of Shay’s Assassin brothers—the one he was closest to—is dead, Achilles crippled, no doubt crawling his way back to his homestead to lick his wounds.

Shay is here, with only the slightest limp to show for our misadventures, and I have escaped with nothing more serious than the lingering surprise that his words stopped me from executing a man I had every right and reason to kill, whose survival may yet come back to haunt me and the Rite whose interests I am supposed to be working in.

One single word from Shay Cormac has rather more gravity than it should.

“Nothing to forgive, sir,” Shay says, cheerful as ever, his smile unaccountably reaching his eyes. “Wouldn’t want to lose you, ‘s all.”

_You won’t_ , I think, and even I am not sure what I mean by that, so I do not risk giving voice to the sentiment.

***

Master Kenway is cold.

He hasn’t said anything—likely won’t before he drops dead of it—but I can see it in him, the way he moves, the way he holds himself. He’s slowing down, and before long he’ll stop shivering, and then where will we be?

Should never have asked him to come along with me, but I couldn’t bear the thought of being alone, and I couldn’t bear the thought of being among so many other people, either.

Something about him soothes me, and I wanted him here, in this peaceful place, just to spend a few hours with the only balm that’ll do anything for my wounds—his presence.

Lucky for the both of us, I’d planned to stay out here perhaps a little longer than he knew—tent, blankets, food, all folded into the packs we’re carrying, half of it in the one Master Kenway took without a moment’s hesitation when I handed it to him.

He needs to rest, and eat, and warm up soon, or we’ll be in trouble.

Thankfully, the ice gives way to stone around the next corner, the warmth of the earth blunting the teeth of the cold. Master Kenway sighs an unmistakable sigh of relief, and I turn just in time to see a shudder run through him.

Not too far gone yet, then.

“We should make camp,” I say, and he looks at me for just a moment before nodding, shrugging the pack off his shoulders.

A thrill of trust curls up in my belly, happy and warm.

“I had wondered what was in the packs,” Master Kenway says, helping me sort through tools and equipment. “I did worry you needed my help excavating something.”

I laugh, and the sound echoes in the cavern. “You can’t fool me, sir,” I say, looking over at him. “I know you’re no stranger to getting your hands dirty.”

The hint of a smile flashes over Master Kenway’s features, there and gone like sheet lightning.

“I will thank you for keeping that knowledge to yourself,” he says, voice warm and low, _intimate_ , fit for sharing secrets. “If the others realise what I’m capable of, they might begin to expect me to _do_ it.”

Despite what he says, I know he likes his field work, I’ve seen the life in his face, the thrill of using his body, testing its limits. The others see a man who signs papers and takes tea with powerful men and pushes and prods things in one direction or other with a hundred invisible tendrils of influence, but there’s more to him than that.

I realise now that I’m the only one who’s seen it. _Really_ seen it.

He doesn’t work with anyone else. They’d never keep up.

A lick of pride tingles up my spine at the thought, and cold fingers work quickly in setting up the tent.

***

“Why are we out here?” I ask, climbing after Shay into the small, narrow, fleece-lined oilskin tent and sighing as the cleverly-weighted flaps drop closed behind me, relief at finally being out of the cold running through me. The shelter is much-appreciated.

“Vikings,” Shay says, a smile in his voice that I don’t need to see his face to know is there. At this time of year the light will not fail for more than an hour or two, and there is enough seeping even through the lined tent walls to see movement by.

“Vikings?”

“Aye. You’ve got your ancient things, and I have mine.”

“Your belt buckle,” I say, before I can ask myself whether I should reveal that my gaze has ever swept so low.

“Aye. The one thing on me when I washed up that the Colonel thought was worth keeping,” Shay says. “Found it out here long ago. Still attached to the owner.”

And took it, like the little magpie he is. Named for a hawk, but sharp as a corvid and twice as likely to claim something shiny for himself without a second thought.

“Polished up like new,” Shay continued. “I asked Chevalier about it because he always seemed to know every bloody thing, and he gave me an earful about reading a book. So I did, when I found one.”

A memory of Shay describing the Precursor temple as a _tree_ comes back to me, suddenly vivid in my mind. My knowledge of Norse mythology is perhaps more limited than I’d like in this moment, but Yggdrasil is a difficult concept to forget, even for a little boy vastly more interested in trickster gods and disguised giants.

“And it interests you?” I ask, realising how little I know of Shay outside of the time we’ve spent together.

Shay nods.

A sudden, uncontrollable shiver runs through me.

“Cold, sir?”

Yes. Yes, I was chilled to my bones earlier, though I could not bring myself to complain, to show weakness.

“Perhaps a little,” I admit, knowing it would be useless to lie and only erode the trust between us, trust Shay handed me wholly on the day we met and that I have safeguarded ever since.

No. I will not lie to Shay. He has been lied to more than enough in his young life, and admitting weakness to _him_ does me no harm.

His loyalty is such that it would break his heart to use it against me, so I can be certain that anything I say to him will be kept in confidence.

“You should take your cloak off, sir,” Shay says, shrugging out of his own jacket. “It's cold.”

He’s right—as counterintuitive as shedding layers may be, the tent is well-sealed, the pelts and leather groundsheet under us protect us from the worst of the cold, and our bodies will warm the space for each other much more quickly if our cold outer layers are tucked aside for the time being, until the chill wears off them.

Shay presents me moments later with a relatively simple spread—hard cheese, assorted nuts, dried fruit, and from the bottom of the pack, an as-yet unopened bottle of rum.

There is more than enough for two, even in the cold, and for the first time I believe that he wants me here.

We pass the bottle back and forth, and for a few long moments the only sounds are chewing, swallowing, and the satisfied sighs of two people fulfilling their most basic needs single-mindedly, still haunted by the spectre of the cold outside.

“Hope you’re not starting to regret coming out here with me,” Shay says, wiping his mouth on the back of his sleeve, charmingly uncouth.

“On the contrary,” I finish chewing and swallowing an almond, noting that Shay leaves them for me so casually it can be nothing but deliberate. He has paid some attention to my tastes, then.

His taste is for the large, oily Brazil nuts that leave a glossy sheen on his lips, which he nibbles in surprisingly delicate bites.

I make a mental note of this, intending to know something of his tastes, too. Shay Cormac would do anything I asked him simply because I asked, but it never hurts to have a simple reward or two on hand, reinforcement that on top of the larger purpose—which he understands so well—there are also material pleasures to be had.

Shay is so easy to please that it is difficult not to spoil him for my own pleasure. His enjoyment of all things is pure and childlike despite the harshness of his life, and watching him enjoy the simple things that make him smile is one of few things I’ve managed to find a measure of joy in these last long months.

He passes me the rum bottle as we finish the last of our rations—I trust we were meant to, since Shay made no move to stop either of us. He will have prepared sensibly for this trip, whatever his aims are, and despite my earlier uncertainty I now feel sure I am meant to be here, even if only in lieu of a fire to keep him warm.

Somewhere, in the depths of my heart, I know that I would find contentment in turning my entire life to the purpose of keeping Shay warm when he wished to be warmed.

“Better, sir?” Shay asks.

We’ve gotten no more than a fifth of the way through the rum, but I think better of drinking any more and pass it back to him.

“Somewhat,” I say. I am no longer critically cold, but I could stand to be warmer, and Shay in his waistcoat and shirt must be feeling it, too.

This—this hunting for Viking treasures—is something from his old life, and he has invited me into it. I think, perhaps, that I am a replacement for the late Liam O’Brien, and this is a much easier task than being a replacement for the late George Monro, but does still come with some of its own difficulties.

Not least of all that O’Brien was undoubtedly more useful in terms of producing warmth, large as he was.

But more significantly—I suspect strongly that they shared a physical closeness that Shay and I do not.

And yet when Shay packs away the rum and arranges the surfeit of blankets just so with absolutely no input from me, and pushes me down into them, wriggling easily into my arms, it is much less awkward than I had envisioned.

Shay feels smug against me, as though he has already won the prize he came out here to seek. His body is warm, and under our nest of blankets, sealed off from the elements, I am finally quite comfortable.

“Used to do this with Liam,” Shay says, confirming my suspicions—though it’s unclear whether he means treasure hunting specifically or snuggling under blankets, and I imagine this is because he means both and feels no shame in telling me.

“You will have to forgive me for being rather smaller,” I said. I have a little breadth in the shoulders on Shay, but only a little, and we are of a height.

He is more muscular than I am, too. One of my hands has ended up curled around a strong sailor’s bicep, flexing easily as he fiddles with a loose thread on one of the blankets, and I am utterly fascinated.

“Nothing to forgive, sir,” Shay says. “He snores—snored—something awful.”

Shay is not yet accustomed to the idea that O’Brien is dead, and I wonder if this is why he has been so quick to seek a replacement. So he need not confront the feeling just yet, so he can slot another into the empty space in his soul and not feel the loss.

But I do not want Liam O’Brien’s place. I want my own.

“And you imagine I won’t?”

“Too posh to snore, sir,” Shay says cheerfully.

“I’m not certain that’s how that works,” I respond, thinking of men Shay would undoubtedly judge more harshly than I falling asleep at the dinner table and only being found out because of the loudness of their snoring.

I have no idea whether or not I snore, and certainly not whether it would be enough to disturb a tired bedmate.

I have never had a bedmate long enough to ask.

Shay says nothing, only snuggles closer, but there is wakeful tension in his body and he will not sleep soon. Too much on his mind, and I wonder how I can possibly lift the burden—other than by serving as a large, self-warming pillow.

The silence between us is not uncomfortable, but it is unproductive. Shay has been unimaginably brave for me, and now I must be brave for him.

“I killed my mentor after discovering that he had betrayed my family,” I say, the words spilling out before I can question the wisdom of telling him this. “And you are now the only Templar who knows, so I must ask you to keep my secret.”

I hadn’t realised how heavily the burden of killing Reginald still sat on my shoulders until Shay knew, too.

A dark path had stretched before me since that day, and I had seen little choice but to tread it.

And then Shay had grabbed me by the collar and dragged me back into the light, stopping my fall with a single word.

_Don’t._

Regret it later though I may, killing Achilles in cold blood would have represented a point of no return.

And I would not have had Shay in my arms now, silently contemplating the monster he has invited into his life so readily, a monster who might well one day consume him and all his goodness and light.

A part of my soul already itches for more of him, and I cannot be certain it is not a dark part.

Passing my ultimate fate into Shay’s hands takes a load off me. I have given him a weapon with which to thoroughly destroy me and I trust him to use it should I ever stray too far from the light.

“He was like a father to me,” I continue once the damning part has had time to sink in. “Every now and again since his death, I have wished dearly to write to him for advice, guidance in running the Rite, and in personal matters, and I have often picked up a quill and written his name before I remember that I cannot.”

Shay shifts minutely in my arms.

“My point is that it is all right to miss Liam. You did the right thing, Shay, but that does not mean you cannot regret losing a man you…”

_Loved._

“… cared for.”

I cannot stand to think of the selfish brute of a man who doubted Shay’s intelligence to the end and would have killed him on sight so readily as having his love.

“I didn’t kill him,” Shay says quietly, as though confessing some great crime. “The fall did.”

“I’m hardly likely to fault you for that, am I?”

Shay takes a moment to consider this. He thought I would, I realise, he thinks I value him only for his capacity for violence, like the Assassins did.

Nothing could be further from the truth. It pains me more than it ought that I cannot remove him entirely from the need to do violence to others, because I know it chips away at him. It will never be as critical in him as it is in me, he will never have my capacity for callous cruelty, but it wears him down all the same and it feels like my duty to build him back up, remind him that he is a fundamentally good man in a way I will never be.

I want my own place in Shay’s soul and the thought suddenly overwhelms me to the exclusion of all other thoughts.

My grip on him tightens, a physical manifestation of my deepest desires.

“Thought you might,” Shay murmurs, confirming my conclusions. “Thought I’d failed you.”

“You have never failed me,” I say, fighting not to tighten my grip again. He still needs to breathe.

Shay turns, wriggling his way around in my arms to face me.

The kiss is neither wholly unexpected nor at all unwanted, a chaste brush of Shay’s lips against my own, so light I might have believed, under other circumstances, that it was an accident.

But there is need in Shay’s eyes, hunger, a silent plea for…

For what, exactly? Affection? Sex? Simple comfort?

The next kiss is more insistent, because I have not said no, and I _will_ not say no. My heart quickens, blood rushing in my ears, I am not made of stone and Shay is warm, and sweet, and it would do no one any favours now to pretend I have not looked at him and _wanted_. Wanted his mouth and his laughter, his work-rough hands, wanted to exhaust him to his core and look upon him gasping for breath in my bed, skin glistening with sweat, coal-dark eyes glowing with warmth and satisfaction that I had put there.

I move easily as Shay pushes me onto my back, warm arousal trickling down from where his tongue brushes against mine to the pit of my stomach.

He needs to be allowed to take and it comes as a relief to allow myself to give. Whatever he needs from me, I more than owe it to him, and this is not so terribly much to ask.

His body is warm and solid on top of mine, but he alights like a raincloud, so light as to be insubstantial, not pinning me down, never forcing, and my heart aches at the thought that he is so much more gentle with me than I could ever be with him.

Happiness rumbles in his chest, a low murmur of satisfaction as he explores my mouth, unhurried, fingers curled around my shoulder, thumb brushing against my collar, his touch crackling like lightning in the air along my bare skin.

“Sir,” he pauses, biting his lip as he looks at me, and then, “Haytham?”

“Yes.”

_Yes_. I want him to call me Haytham, I have wanted him to call me that since the moment we met, desperate even then to reach out to him and invite him in.

I realise belatedly that I have tried to slot Shay into Reginald’s place in _my_ soul, but he was such an ill fit that he has carved out his own space without needing to be asked. I tried to make him carry the burden of the Precursor artefacts, one that had already pushed him to the brink of death, and I should not have.

I had intended to send him after the box, but I will not. _Cannot_. He has done nothing to deserve my single-minded callousness and I will not inflict it on him further.

George Monro left me a precious gift in Shay, and I will hold it close to my chest from here on.

Shay’s eyes light up as though he’s found the greatest treasure he can possibly imagine. He is so _easily_ pleased and I would please him, I would please him every waking hour, and it would be weakness and excess and I would not care because surely, _surely_ we have each suffered enough for several lifetimes?

“Is this all right?” Shay asks, so soft, so sweet.

Other men would have accepted a lack of resistance as the only permission they needed, but not Shay, who has bedded nuns and whores alike, and undoubtedly left all of them with the impression that they were thoroughly lucky to meet him.

“I am not Liam O’Brien,” I say, suddenly unable to stand the thought that I might substitute for another man in Shay’s heart.

Shay shakes his head, thumb inching up to stroke along my jaw, softness in his eyes.

“I know,” he says. “I… I’ve been waiting for you my whole life.”

_I’ve been waiting for you since I was six years old_.

The thought comes unbidden, and it is _ridiculous_ , but I am six years older than Shay and there has been a desperate longing in me to be understood by another person since, perhaps, the moment he was born.

His absence pained me before I ever knew he existed.

My fingers slide easily into the soft strands of his hair, pulling him down for another kiss, harder and more desperate, encouraging him to settle on me with a hand on his back, to feel his weight pressed against me.

I am more than strong enough to bear it and I _want_ to.

Shay laughs as I roll us both over, need and hunger overriding any attempt I might have made to be gentle with him.

He is strong enough, too, to bear my weight. And he _wants_ to. This much, I am certain of.

Long legs twine eagerly around my waist, powerful thighs tensing around me, drawing me close, the heat of Shay’s body so much more tempting in this frozen land than it ever has been.

And yet I immediately want him somewhere more comfortable—the rug in front of the fire in my study, perhaps, spread out in front of the hearth, shadowy fingers warring with the light of the flames over his pale skin, warmed to bronze.

Shay kisses with his whole body, writhing against me in earnest, so eager I can barely gather the wits to open our breeches, mindful that we will regret it if we come in them out here.

His body is so impossibly warm under mine that I could forget that I’d ever been cold in my life, greedy fingers branding my skin wherever he touches me, palms sliding under my shirt until their path is frustrated by my waistcoat and suddenly my buttons are in serious danger, but Shay moderates himself and stops just short of tearing anything open.

There’s so little room and we’re so new to this that there’s no art to it, both of us fumbling our way through seeking out sensitive places and mapping out what we can reach of each other’s bodies, but Shay’s warm laughter is intoxicating and his touch is clever and practiced.

My toes curl as I spend on his belly, surprised cry spilling into his mouth, and Shay too finishes with a sweet little gasp I will carry with me until the end of my days and does not let go of me immediately, the desperation ebbing out of his kisses as they become long and languorous, the sort of just-because kissing I have known only once before and never thought I would be allowed to indulge so freely in without trying my partner’s patience.

Shay’s patience, in this as in all things, is infinite. He gives the impression of a hyperactive pup, but beneath his charmingly enthusiastic exterior is a man capable of great seriousness and deep thought, more steady than I in his convictions, more certain of the line between right and wrong and more able to keep his balance walking it.

He is almost everything I am not and I do not deserve to have him under me like this, eyes smiling as he allows me a moment to breathe, skin cooling against my own.

“Warmer now, sir?” Shay asks, eyes alight with mischief.

The _cheek_.

“Much, thank you,” I say, easing my way off him and reaching out to arrange the blankets and our clothing so we won’t freeze once our blood cools.

Shay is stunningly beautiful post-coitus and I immediately want him again.

The softness of his hair, freed now from the customary ribbon tying it back, proves too great a temptation for me, and I reach out to run my fingers through it. Shay’s eyes fall closed immediately, as though there is no greater happiness for him than being petted by his thoroughly unworthy Grand Master.

“Sleep, Shay,” I say, aware that he has not slept since before we arrived at the Precursor site and he must be exhausted now. “I’ll keep watch.”

Shay laughs, but makes no attempt to move. “Aye. Wouldn’t want to get eaten by an auk or anythin’, would we?”

“You’re making fun of me.”

He hums, but falls asleep before he can needle me further.

I decide that the auks are no serious threat, and snuggle closer to him to join him in slumber.


End file.
